


His Mother's Hamartia

by 100dabbo



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Childhood Memories, Daddy Issues, Femininity, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Pre-Canon, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/pseuds/100dabbo
Summary: Robert Fischer’s mother was the only person he ever cared about. The years leading up to her death had some of his fondest - and foulest - memories.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20
Collections: InceptGen





	His Mother's Hamartia

**Author's Note:**

> I've had these ideas for Robert's mother for a while, and when I saw this InceptGen fest, I _had_ to participate! I hope you like it :)

Robert Fischer’s mother was the only person he ever cared about. There was respect, there was love, and above all, there was a mutual feeling towards his father.

She and Maurice had been married for some years when their first and only son was born, herself junior to him of five years, an Australian heiress to her father’s own company. Her beauty caught Fischer Sr. off guard the first time he’d laid his eyes on her, and when her personality bloomed and blossomed before him through their conversation and revelry, he proposed to her within six months.

It was, perhaps, the proudest moment of his life when it was proclaimed by the doctors in their white and blue scrubs that his first born was a boy. He cut the cord, smiled wider than ever before, and named him Robert Fischer Jr. to uphold tradition. She heard the name, held him in in her arms and said,

“Bobby.” 

When Robert was aged six, he received his first Barbie doll at Christmas. 

Being a child from a rich and distinguished family, he was never short of the best gifts on the market, from the latest toys to the finest clothes, but on this occasion, when he saw the box beneath the green pine branches of the tree, he was more ecstatic than he could ever be.

With just one glance at the shape of it, its long, cuboidal shape, wrapped in pristine pink and holographic cellophane, a bow of signature perfection tied by his mother, he instantly knew it was what he had been in desire of for months. Just over three had passed between his birthday and then, enough time for him to beg for something new, something better, something he’d never had the opportunity to have before. 

So, when he found his mother’s old dolls, their stark, porcelain faces with cheeks airbrushed a damask tint, green and glassy eyes with their red chiffon dresses, he could hardly be stopped in demanding one for himself. She indulged him, as ever, keeping him in suspense of when and how he might receive it, all of this plotting kept confidential, especially a secret from the boy’s father. 

The first of December rolled around soon enough, and that was the day she was bought. A perfectly plastic model of woman, unreal and bleach blonde, blue eyes that could never be in competition with Robert’s own, and a figure that he’d never grow up to admire quite in the same way as other boys. 

Concealed amongst the rest, she sat patiently in her box until the moment she was pulled out by Robert’s eager hand. His mother’s eyes stayed on him, watching adoringly as piece by piece, the paper and plastic shell was discarded to reveal the doll’s packaging, her clear window that allowed him to peek inside and study the specimen before extraction.

She was sure he’d never looked happier, lunging forward to embrace her tightly, squealing out a plethora of ‘thank yous’ and ‘I love yous’, turning to his father to free her from her cardboard prison, cut off the twisty ties and unbind her slender plastic wrists, letting her out and into the world.

The boy was still giggling, burying his face in his mother’s neck to smell her sweet perfume, her arms wrapped around him to hold him close, while he tossed it to Maurice. His eyes fell onto it, clocked it as nothing more than a girl’s toy, and stared with a grimace. 

“You bought this for him?” He asked her, the sour accent with which he spoke forcing her to raise her head, staring back at him with a similar look of malcontent. On her side, it was in disapproval of his reaction.

It certainly wasn’t the first time Robert had been gifted something feminine, and yet the shock Maurice had, that she’d be as audacious as to persist with it, was just as constant. Before, it was a pink bow, another time it was princess themed notebook, but this, this _doll_ actively encouraged him to _play_ like a girl. Through his disgusted eyes, it was outrageous.

She couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second, switching it back to delight as Robert looked up at her with joy dancing in his eyes, and with her airy, sweet, mellifluous voice, replied,

“Yes.”

When Robert was aged seven, he received his first dress.

In a similar circumstance to his affinity for dolls, he’d taken a likening to his mother’s frocks and gowns, the ones she’d wear to charity events and weddings and dinners, looking like the most beautiful princess in the world. And he wanted to be that too. 

It seemed emulation and imitation was his love language, expressing to his mother than in being just like her, in becoming a carbon-copy, he admired her above all else; herself the epitome of everything fantastic and wonderful and amazing.

His father, being an ever-distant figure in his life, had jetted out for a week in Sydney, ‘surveying the office’ as he called it. Robert’s mother had no need to be suspicious of this, however; he was a horrid man in nearly every way, but the one thing he would never do, the one thing she _knew_ he would never do, was commit adultery. Perhaps it was his redeeming quality. Perhaps it was just human decency.

She took her son out with her to lighten his spirits, away from the boring house and into the city to peruse the luxury stores and all their glorious clothes and styles. From high end boutiques to designer retailers, Robert stood beside her, hand in hers, with awe in his eyes at everything he could see. From left to right, front to back, every part of the places they went were _filled_ with such inspiring garments and fanciful apparel. 

Some he recognised, those in the current season his mother had already added to her wardrobe, others entirely new, fresh picks, ripe for plucking from their hangers to purchase and wear to the next fancy meal or grand event; show up in style and fabulous dress to be the envy of all diners else.

The look in his eyes was something she cherished, the amazement he would have as he gazed upon it all, the rush of seeing style upon style, even on the stationary mannequins dutifully displaying each piece; it was a look she truly treasured in his character.

And, at one moment, when Robert’s eyes locked onto one, a very specific frock with the most beautiful detailing and colour, she knew she had to buy it for him.

Baby blue, just like his eyes, fashioned from silk and pleated at the waistline, the dress fit his little frame perfectly and stopped just past his knees, flowing and swaying gently every time he brushed the fabric with his fingers. Fine sleeves fell over his shoulders like the petals of a tulip, and a sash bowed at the back, like he himself was her own little gift.

“How do you like it?” She asked him, looking at him with a warm smile, heart overflowing with pride, and joy, and delight.

There were nearly tears in his eyes as he whispered his reply,

“I love it.”

When Robert was aged eight, he received his first kiss.

In the playground, a boy of his age sat beside him on the bench, and it just happened. His heart was thudding, his cheeks were burning, and his hands were tensing tightly by his sides, balled into fists, hidden slightly by the cuffs of that horrid, out of size blazer the school mandated its pupils to wear. He swallowed, lips still tingling with the feeling of the other boy’s, and he bit them, nervously awaiting what he was to say in response.

His big blue eyes were wide and staring, watching as the boy took the tips of his fingers to touch his own mouth, trail them across the corners, and then look back at him, blinking like a bewildered little puppy. He giggled and then stood up, holding his hand out for Robert to take.

“Play tag with me?”

That afternoon, when he got picked him up from school, he was beaming, utterly and irrepressibly elated, buzzing out of his skin almost, ready to tell anyone and everyone what he’d done and what he’d do tomorrow. He sat in his seat in the sleek black limo, right beside his nanny, hands pinching the fabric of his grey school-boy shorts while his feet restlessly stamped on the floor. His mind was busy thinking of how his mother would be sure to smile and grin, how his father would say he was proud of him and pat him on the back gently as congratulations.

When the car pulled up to his home, passing through the tall brass gates and around the fountain, parking in front of the large double doors and their ornate wooden carvings, he sprinted out straight away, leaving his satchel and coat and hat behind on his seat, all too eager to get in, to let loose his secret and buzz about it until he was told to go to sleep.

Without the key to unlock the door, he stood on the top step, bouncing on his knees with excitement, impatiently and keenly waiting on his nanny. To his little mind, through his eager eyes, it looked like she was being purposefully slow, picking up the items he’d left behind, walking around the car and shutting the door, saying goodbye to the driver before meandering up the steps to join him and open it up.

Even in his clearly evident haste to get in there, she still stopped while she opened up her bag with an infuriating lethargy and sloth to find the key, shaking her head at his impatience saying, 

“Good things come to those who wait, Robert” and, “You’re like your mother,” She was taking out all of her keys, all of their shining metal teeth glinting and shining in the bright sun as she located the correct one, “too quick and fast,”, She slipped it into the lock, fitting perfectly, “Be more like your father,” It was twisted, and the latch clicked open, letting the handle push down, “Calm and collected—”

Before she could finish, Robert swung open the heavy door, neglecting to remove his school shoes before he ran into the living room and over its pristine white carpet, carelessly tracking in the dirt from their soles. He jumped over the back of the sofa and rolled onto the cushions while shouting out his mother’s name, squealing excitedly with both hands taking clawing fistfuls of the cushions.

She emerged not half a second later from the adjacent study, her warm smile spreading across her lips while she circumvented the coffee table, skirt flowing with her gait, and joined him on the couch. She sat calmly, her petticoat poofing out around her, contrasting Robert’s overjoyed bouncing as he wildly grasped forward to reach his hands out and hold hers.

“What is it, Bobby?”

“I kissed a boy!”

The reveal didn’t shock her at all, it’d been evident from earlier in his childhood who he’d come to like as he would emerge into adolescence, and she squeezed his hands tightly as she said,

“Tell me everything!”

When Robert was aged nine, he received his first slur.

To his mother’s advice, he kept his little kiss a secret from his father, telling him he would only scold him for not taking his private education seriously. He nodded in assent, zipping his lips with a pinched forefinger and thumb, giggling at her in memory of the sweet event.

But it didn’t stay secret for long. 

On his birthday, the very day he turned nine, he was permitted by his begrudged father to hold a small party, inviting only a select few of his classmates, all of whom were boys. Of course, _he_ was there, the boy who’d made his stomach feel like it was floating and caused his heart to beat faster than ever, and the two of them were nearly inseparable the whole afternoon. 

His mother saw it and smiled at it, knowing how happy he must have been to have him there on his special day, and made sure his little birthday crown sat neatly over his head while he played amongst them. Maurice, on the other hand, remained just as distanced as usual, spectating from his position on his armchair, hardly paying attention to anything going on, least of all Robert’s blushing face and batting eyelashes towards the other boy.

That was until he went outside.

Robert had led the boy out towards the gardens of the estate, beneath the archways of roses and vines, the two of them standing on the green grass path, garnished by the fallen pink petals and dotted with little white daisies. The flowers watched as they kissed again, for a second time, deeper and less fleeting than before, but unfortunately, they weren’t the only ones to see.

Robert’s father had been sent out by his wife to find him, required in the living room to start cutting his sickly-sweet cake for his guests, and there, as he was stood on the other end of the garden path, did he witness the incident with his own eyes. 

He saw his son take up the other boy’s hand and lead him back to the house, his face smiling with glee, but his rage contrasted his son’s happiness, and he let it seep into his veins the second he saw it. He too made his way back into the house, meeting with the waiting party inside the living room, his wife eagerly anticipating her son’s return.

His visage was explicit enough in exposing his sour temperament, his lip curling with his snarl, his knuckles turning white with his tight fist. Robert entered the room, followed by the boy, and before his smile could continue any longer, Maurice voiced his anger,

“Robert Michael Fischer, you will come here this instant.”

The command was heard clear enough by him, as it was by his friends, and his mother. His face immediately blanched through fear of what he might have done. He followed the instruction, quietly stepping away from the rest to stand beneath him and his mother, her face more sympathetic towards him, not to mention confused as to what the matter could be.

She raised her hand to her mouth, stroking at her lip nervously, eyes concentrated on her husband.

Ignoring how worried the woman beside him seemed, Maurice stared down at his son with his austere glare, looking with distaste at the lopsided crown on his head. He turned and walked away, snapping his fingers to make him follow along behind, and took him into the bright foyer, its chandelier’s imposing height above looming down at his short, little stature too. His mother followed after as well, pleading with all the assertion she could muster for him to discuss what the matter was before he revealed it in an outburst.

“Maurice?” She said, tugging on his elbow, “Maurice, you tell me what’s happened now!”

He shook her off and shot her down with a glare of her own, then silently snapped his attention back onto the birthday boy. His hand whisked and snatched the crown from his head, causing him to flinch back, releasing a quiet whimper as it was taken from him. 

Maurice snapped the plastic in his hands, not taking his eyes away from him for a second, and tossed it down, clattering it on the white marble floor to land it at Robert’s feet. He stooped down to the boy’s height and stared into his fearing eyes, watching them just about to brim with tears.

“No son of mine will be a faggot.”

When Robert was aged ten, he received his first memento.

Of course, when it was given to him, he wasn’t to know that it was one. He wasn’t to know it’d be the last thing his mother would give him in person.

It was a ring, with a silver band, stoned with three emeralds and encrusted with two sapphires between them. It was a little too big for any of his fingers.

She gave it to him with a solemn smile, placing it in his palm gracefully, keeping her voice with its optimistic lilt, melodious sweetness, and kind expression,

“Bobby, I want you to have this,” She said to him, wrapping his fingers around it to make him hold it tightly, “And when it fits,” She chuckled quietly as she looked at his hands, the small digits that would be sure to let it slip off if he tried to put it on now, “I want you to wear it.”

“Then why don’t you give it to me when it fits?” Robert reasoned with a childish grin, playfully titling his head as if what he’d said was a scholarly inquisition, and his mother was silly for not having thought of it at all. But still, he didn’t attempt to return it, as any gift he was given from her, he would always be grateful for. 

She held onto his hand tighter, just as she would do whenever they shared an intimate moment, and replied,

“Just promise me, Bobby.”

“I promise.”

When Robert was aged eleven, he received his first tragedy.

His mother, a woman of thirty-eight years, died of breast cancer.

When the news spread to Robert, when the fact that his mother was dead struck him, that he’d never see her again, he had no idea how to react. 

Confusion was the first emotion that coursed through him, that it was so unexpected, that he had no clue about it, that he didn’t even know what cancer was, or how she’d gotten it. They told each other everything, she was his best friend and she loved him, so why hadn’t he known?

Sorrow followed in quick succession, not five minutes after he was told were the tears streaming down his freckled cheeks and chin, wetting his soft lips, creasing his eyes and straining his voice as the loud wails rang throughout the entire house. His father was still absent. He hadn’t seen him for days, almost a week, even, but he wasn’t yearning for contact with him at all.

He couldn’t remember who it was that had broken the news to him, and he didn’t care to think. Whoever it was, their face would have been burned into his memory forever, just like the feeling was, so it was better for him to forget.

That same evening, to his eventual dismay, Maurice finally showed up at the Fischer home, commanding that he come down from solitary in his bedroom and into the dining hall for his supper. He was told this second hand by one of the house staff, and he obediently slumped his way down the long hallways and tall staircases to meet him, his teeth biting into his rosy lip. One of his hands was clutched to his first barbie, the other to the sash of his first dress; one he’d much outgrown since the years had passed when it’d been bought for him.

He was assigned his place opposite his father, the twelve-foot table separating them as their meals were placed before them. Robert was still a sniffling mess, and Maurice kept a hold of his emotional reins by fronting his stoic expression, as always.

“Where have you been?” Robert asked him, his voice nettled and sharp, followed by a sudden inhale while he tried to calm himself from his crying fit.

“The hospital.” Maurice said phlegmatically, taking a bite of his food and avoiding eye contact. At least he couldn’t see the doll his son was holding, much less the sash.

Robert had tried to ask him another question, to interrogate him on his absence and cold-heartedness, but the crying just resumed itself, tearing out of him in harsh blubs, making him drop what he was holding to bury his face in his hands.

The man stared at his son unlovingly, like he was inconvenienced by his volume, and sat back in his chair to finish chewing, then swallowed and took in a deep breath.

“You never tell me anything! You never told me; you never care!” Robert screamed at his palms, concealing his face from view, “ _Why_ didn’t you tell me anything?!”

“Robert.” Maurice said, his deep voice penetrating the boy’s focus, making his head whip up to look him in the eyes. Perfect tears rolled out of the corners, sliding down Robert’s already dampened and reddened cheeks, and he said nothing. His father stood from his chair, dragging its feet on the floor for it to groan loudly, the noise making Robert wince. “There’s really nothing to be said.”

And with those words, he buttoned up his blazer jacket and walked out of the room, leaving the sniffling eleven-year-old on his own in the cold, isolating dining room, with only a tepid meal and a glass of water to satisfy his non-existent appetite.

The funeral was the first time he’d been forced to wear a suit without the promise of a new skirt afterwards.

She always was kind like that, his mother. They’d attend galas and meals together with Maurice as he grew a little older, but in his old-fashioned ways, the old man would force him into a more masculine formal attire, undoubtedly a cause for Robert’s irritancy and upset. Yet, the assurance that he’d be timely rewarded incentivised his good behaviour, unlike this time.

The ring he had been gifted just short of a year ago was still yet to fit him, and so it sat in his trouser pocket, intermittently getting grasped by his tight fist just to feel it, just to know it was still with him.

His father was again in avoidance of him, chattering with his in-laws and friends rather than consoling his son. But again, Robert didn’t even want to see him, didn’t want to see anyone really.

Cousins, uncles, grandparents, and friends were all among a list of people he would be detested to converse with. He’d have to put on a show, pretend he was unaffected because _boys don’t cry_ , and show them how strong he was that he could be a big boy on such a sad occasion. But he didn’t want to try. What was the point? Without his mother there, why would he even care?

The most affection he got was a pat on the back from his godfather, his comforting, deep voice telling him ‘it was all going to be okay’. It was the one thing that had prevented him from shattering completely before everyone’s watchful gaze.

After that day, Maurice scarcely spoke of his deceased wife.

He’d never use her name, hardly reference her character, and could only merely mention that his spouse had been parted from him too soon. 

Perhaps it was the resentment he held for her in Robert’s upbringing, the corruption of his character to turn him into this sissy, this faggot, that had no regard for traditional masculine means lest it was in some kind of perverted affair, making him the opposite of what a first born ought to be.

It could have been because of his own pain, because to think of her was to think of her greatness, and her beauty, and her spirit, that it was tragic she had passed so early in her life. He never was one to express these pangs of heart, and for that reason, Robert so strongly believed in the former excuse.

His role in Robert’s life remained exactly the same and had changed bar none in a positive direction, only becoming more distant than ever before. He looked so much like her, had adopted so many of her traits, that damn near looking at him was too much of a reminder.

Her eyes, her lips, her nose, and her smile were embedded in his look. The only thing of his own that he could claim he gave his son was his dark locks. She was beautiful and so was he, so Maurice couldn’t help himself as he took more visits abroad, more weeklong stays in the country they had first met and fallen in love.

She lived perfect and she died perfect, at least she did in Robert’s eyes, and he’d never forgot it.

Mrs Fischer’s hamartia was most certainly her vanity.

She was diagnosed with cancer just short of her son’s tenth birthday and accepted the fact that she was to die. She’d rather pass away than go through the treatment process, to lose what she deemed made her a ‘proper woman’, and she did.

Robert saw her as flawless even years after her death, even into his own adulthood, but what he failed to recognise, what he failed to acknowledge, was her selfishness in her final decision.

She left him with his father in a world that hated people like him, that would be sure to see him suffer as he flourished into the person he was destined to be, and her negligence to this was a bi-product of that fatal flaw.

And even after she was gone, never to see Robert again, this vanity of hers of lived on through him. Everything she taught him, everything she was as a person, became embodied in him while he grew up. He was deep in his own ego by the time he was eighteen, coping with his father’s rejection by deeming himself above his opinion, dressing himself in her pearls and jewels, and eventually, when he was big enough, her rings.

The kiss that Maurice had so detested would progress past the topic of decent conversation, and it only infuriated him further to see strangers in his house during the small hours of the morning. His son became an uncontrollable free spirit, much like his wife was when they’d first met, and he hated that most of all. 

But Robert didn’t care. 

Because his mother was the only person he ever cared about.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, check me out on [Tumblr](https://100dabbo.tumblr.com/) too!


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